


Seedlings

by mellostopheles



Category: Deadly Premonition | Red Seeds Profile
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2019-09-12 08:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16869256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellostopheles/pseuds/mellostopheles
Summary: A collection of various independent chapters of Deadly Premonition fanfic. See chapter notes for specific summaries. Thus far featuring Harry playing pranks, York and Emily making dinner, Thomas and Carol's earlier struggles, and a nostalgic Brian. Open to updating sporadically.





	1. The Lunch Prank

**Author's Note:**

> Before the Sinner’s Sandwich comes into existence, Harry plays a few lunchtime pranks on the unfortunate staff at the A&G Diner, and makes Michael go along for the ride.

“I’m sorry Mr. Stewart, but I suspect, that what I heard was not correct.”

Harry sighed to himself, simmering impatiently in the hot outbreath that was now trapped inside the gasmask with him. Michael, who was leaning forward so that he could speak to him privately, had most certainly heard him correctly. He was just hesitant to admit it. The two of them were outside the A&G Diner, next to Harry’s limo. Michael had just helped him out of it before thinking to ask what their lunch order would be today. Apparently, he did not like the answer Harry had given him.

It had been nearly three years since Harry had first brought Michael to live with him, and he was still struggling to decide if it had been a smart decision. At least he was quiet and seemed happy to keep to himself, something that Harry considered to be necessary, but he was still obviously uncomfortable in his own skin. Harry was beginning to get tired of it. Maybe things would change after he turned eighteen next month.

“You go in there,” Harry muttered to the side of Michael’s head, “and ask them for a sandwich with carrots, tuna, and syrup. Whatever kind of syrup they have. Have them make it on white bread, and be insistent, for god’s sake.”

Michael straightened up and took a moment to adjust his tie and square his shoulders. He was still barely pushing past five foot four, and Harry, who had always been a tall man before committing to the chair he was sitting in now, realised they could not look less like father and son if they tried. Which did at least mean that no-one ever butted in by asking if they were. Some things were better kept private, and family was firmly at the top of that list in Harry’s mind.

They entered the diner together, Michael pushing him along, always struggling slightly at the corner turns. Olivia, the owner’s wife and frequent waitress, caught sight of them at once and hurried over to greet them. Regular customers got extra special attention at the A&G. Of course, in a small town like Greenvale, everyone was a regular customer.

“What can I get you today?” she asked them, hands folded neatly in front of her apron, and a smile fixed so tightly across her cheeks that it had to be painful to hold it there. Harry waited, looking up at Michael through the holes of his mask, and comfortable to admit that he was judging. Michael cleared his throat and launched ahead.

“Mrs. Olivia Cormack. I require a sandwich with carrots, syrup, and tuna fish. For today that alone is what I wish. So says Mr. Stewart.” Olivia’s expression weathered the exchange admirably. Even better than yesterday, when Harry had forced Michael to ask her for a sandwich with pineapple slices and chocolate chips. Or the day before, when he had insisted that he wanted bacon, blue cheese, and brown sugar. The ‘b’ theme had just come to him on a whim.

Olivia was writing the order down as if it was perfectly normal, scribbling away on the little notepad that lived in her apron. Michael seemed pleased with how it had gone today. When Harry had first come up with the game, he had not been happy to play along, fretting about embarrassing himself, or Harry, or the waitress. Bit by bit, Harry had convinced him to get into the fun of it. Now, you could hardly tell from looking at him how uncomfortable he was every time they went through this routine. Michael glanced down at Harry and saw that his eyes were still fixed on him, questioning, and realised suddenly that he had forgotten something.

“Ah! On white bread,” he added, hurrying his words together until they were a soup. “On white bread, thank you. And then that will do.” Olivia smiled at him, offering a second of kindness to deplete some of the awkwardness of the moment.

“I’ll get that for you,” she said. “Just the one sandwich…?” It was always just the one. Michael prepared the rest of their food, including his own lunch, at home. It was good practice for him.

“Yes,” Michael said quietly, and Olivia went off in the direction of the kitchen to put their order through. Harry waited, drumming the arm of his chair with his fingers. Feeling impatient. He preferred when other people worked to his schedule exactly. A moment later he heard a loud ‘Seriously?!’ escape through the kitchen window, and smirked secretly to himself. The chef had seen his order.

Back at the car, Michael checked that no-one else was around before turning to speak to Harry. The two of them lived their lives like they were constantly engaged in espionage. Harry saw the fun side of that. It was his idea, after all. Like everything else.

“Did I do all right?” Michael asked. Harry forced him to wait for a moment before he was willing to answer.

“That was fine,” he said at last. “Though you could seem less afraid that the staff are going to bite your head off. There’s nothing they can do to you.” He leant forward slightly, and noticed that Michael instinctively did the same. “No-one can touch either of us, Michael. You surely know that by now. Enjoy life a little before you die, won’t you?”

“We have slightly different definitions of fun, Mr. Stewart,” Michael said quietly to himself, opening up the door to the limo to avoid any further confrontation. Harry allowed himself to be helped into the car, thinking through various mean-spirited responses. In the end, he decided to cut the boy some slack for today. He was trying. That much was obvious.

“Come along then, let’s get home,” he called out. Michael appeared in the car doorway, holding up the bag they had been given by Olivia.

“What would you like me to do with this?” he asked.

“You can toss it out,” Harry snorted, thinking of the disgusting mishmash of ingredients he had asked for for today’s prank. “The human who could eat that shit comfortably is not someone I care to meet.” Michael said nothing, and climbed into the driver’s seat. The offensive lunch bag was placed delicately on the passenger’s side seat. Harry could tell he was unhappy about the idea of disposing of it while they were within walking distance of the diner. Just in case Olivia caught him in the act and was somehow offended that they had wasted her time. That misplaced compassion was something he would have to get over in time. Sooner rather than later.

Michael started the car. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Harry was already plotting something for the next day’s lunch. Tomorrow was a Saturday. Perhaps he could liven up their routine and order food for delivery. Then he could get Michael to complain to whoever brought it that the food was cold. It most certainly would be, after the long, winding crawl of a drive up to the mansion where they lived. Harry, of course, had a private road that cut through the woods and shaved plenty of time off the journey, one which he did not allow anyone else to use. Not even if he had invited them to the house himself.

Harry turned to look out of the window at the passing scenery, and caught a glance at his reflection in the side mirror. Hidden behind the faceless mask, eyes barely visible in their dark sockets. Emotionless to anyone on the outside. He looked away. If he could meet his twenty-year-old self now, face him, and admit that this was what he was doing with his days at seventy, he doubted the man would be too excited at the prospect of getting older. Even if they both ignored all the other reasons to dread their personal future. Harry was the richest man in town. Probably in any of the neighbouring towns, as well. The richest man until you hit Seattle. Most people would have more to show for it. Playing pranks on the hapless people who lived in his town did not do much to quiet the voice that asked why he had nothing to go home to afterwards. Not today, at least.

“You know, Michael, I’ve changed my mind,” Harry announced. Michael looked back over his shoulder for a split second, before returning his attention to the road.

“About what, Mr. Stewart?”

“You can save that sandwich after all.” Harry allowed a smile to come over his face, even if it was invisible to anyone but him. “I’ll make a resolution with you. No matter how disgusting whatever I order is, I promise to take one bite of it. Just for fun, you understand.”

“Very well.”

“Who knows, I might actually like one of them.” Michael gave him a polite laugh, before lapsing back into silence. Harry looked at the bag in the passenger seat for a moment, wincing at the thought of what was inside. Still, the decision made him feel better, as if he had made a change in his life. Even if this time, the joke was on him.


	2. Snapshot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the case begins to draw to an end, York is over at Emily's house to help her with dinner. As he wanders around her house, a certain photograph catches his eye.

The whole kitchen smelled of burnt cheese, which York was beginning to realise was a lot worse than it sounded. He was just about ready to start holding his nose, and considering his line of work and his diet, that said a lot. Instead, he wandered away from the point of impact, taking the time to explore Emily’s house.

“York? Don’t just go wherever you want.” Emily was stirring her witch’s brew on the stove top, barely paying him any attention. York smiled to himself. He could think of a million different reasons why letting someone you had only met a couple of weeks ago roam around your house was a terrible idea. He had seen the results of that misplaced trust for himself, more times than he could count. It took some real faith on her part to let him come over here and help out with dinner. They were still barely better than strangers. Maybe that was just how things went in a small town like this one, but he had a feeling it was more personal than that.

“I certainly feel special, don’t you, Zach?” he muttered under his breath. There was a lot of art on the walls in Emily’s house. York thought back to his own apartment, and how bare it was in comparison. He was hardly ever there these days, so it made sense. There was no point investing energy in decorating somewhere he barely ever saw. The lonely Ramones poster that he and Zach had got as a moving in present for themselves was all they needed.

Moving through the house, listening to the sound of food bubbling and hissing somewhere behind him, York felt more at home than he had in years. When your life was nothing but a string of hotel visits, brief moments in different cities, and long car journeys, it was easy to forget the comfort offered by a well-loved house. It felt good to be somewhere that actually looked lived in. Emily’s things were all over the place. It was obvious she had tried to tidy, but in the brisk, last-minute way of someone who was prepared to be judged for how they lived. She stood by herself, he would give her that. He saw abandoned exercise equipment pushed carelessly in against the wall. Away from its usual home in the middle of the floor, no doubt. There were magazines hastily jumbled into a pile and hidden in plain sight beneath a coffee table. Lifestyle and cooking titles, from what he could make out. Half-burnt scented candles sat on the side next to the TV. York picked one up and was greeted by the smell of peach. He felt much better for it. His nose was finally clear of what he had had to suffer through in the kitchen.

Continuing his journey, York came across a row of picture frames. There were a couple of generic nature shots that might even have been stock photos just left in after they had been bought, a few of an older man that he assumed was Emily’s father, and then, suddenly, one that captured him completely.

“Emily?” York said. She did not answer at first, probably unable to hear him over the popping of the sauce. He had never developed much in the way of projecting his voice. Instead of trying again, he picked up the photo frame and carried it through to the kitchen with him. Emily looked up when he came in and her eyes widened when she saw what he had.

“Give me that!” she said, reaching for the picture. “You can’t just move things around, York! That’s mine.” York handed it over to her without a fuss, and she took it and held it protectively to her chest. She was wearing a dress today, a sky blue that he thought went nicely with her eyes. Not that he ever noticed that sort of thing.

“That’s you in the photo, isn’t it?” he asked, as nonchalant as ever, despite Emily’s reaction. She clung tighter to the frame. Her dress was going to end up getting dusty. Before York had picked it up, the photo clearly had not been moved in years. It had been forgotten about.

“Yes…” Emily said after a while, as her fingers slowly loosened. The photo came away from her chest, and she let herself look down at it. “It is me.” York smiled.

The photo showed a teenage girl, maybe seventeen or eighteen, leaning against a fence. Emily’s face was recognisable, but rounder, and painted with messy makeup. A streak of dark blue eyeshadow over each eye, thick lashes, and messy purple lipstick. Her hair was a lot longer, too, disappearing down her back, and dry like straw. She was wearing a loose plaid shirt that looked like the type girls steal from their boyfriends, though he had a feeling she had bought this one for herself. It hung off her shoulders, and she had a denim skirt and a homemade t-shirt on underneath, the latter scrawled with the name of a band he had never heard of. Maybe a local one. Maybe even one of her own. He liked the idea, but remembering what she had told him before, it did not ring true. He doubted she had had enough close friends for them to form a band together.

“You look like yourself,” York said. Emily scoffed, looking at him uncertainly, before glancing back down at the photo.

“Well, it’s me. I guess I would do.” She was smiling slightly to herself. It was obvious she did not know what he meant. York moved a little closer to her. He wanted her to understand.

“You look comfortable in yourself,” he said, trying to be clear. “Looking at this picture feels like I’m seeing who you really are.” Emily pulled the frame back against her chest, hiding the image from sight. Her cheeks had started to turn pink. York wondered why.

“I need to stir the sauce,” she muttered, putting the photo face down on the counter before reaching for a wooden spoon by the side of the stove. It certainly looked like it had seen better days. York might have to take its statement soon, it was a witness to meals and meals worth of crimes.

“It makes it seem like we’d be friends,” York said. He had said it as bluntly as he said everything, and Zach was already there in his head to correct him. He was always clumsy when he talked to people like this. At work, he could hide behind the business at hand, and being blunt was seen as a helpful trait. Not so much in the kitchen of someone he would cautiously say he was starting to like.

Emily stopped toying with her unsalvageable sauce and looked at him. She nibbled her lip, just barely enough to be visible, pulling it back and forth in the shyest movements while she thought over what to say next. York had already told her about his teenage punk phase. A phase he still looked back on fondly, lest anyone forget. Even if other people had doubted him at the time, assumed the worst based on his clothes, he had liked dressing that way. It gave him a chance to express himself, a chance he needed desperately at that point in life. Seeing the photo of Emily led him to believe she had gone through something similar. He remembered what she had said about when she first moved to Greenvale. People had been just as judgemental to her as they had been to him.

“We… can be friends _now_ ,” Emily said slowly. She turned her head away, but York caught a smile there. He brought out one of his own to match.

“I can settle for that,” he agreed. His hand ended up on the counter by itself, reaching for hers. He stopped it just before it reached Emily. A bad idea for sure, although he could not help but notice she had not moved her own hand away…

There would be time for these sorts of things later, when everything was resolved. Time enough. He was sure of that.


	3. Family Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Years before the events of the game, a younger Thomas struggles with the bar he has inherited, and clashes with his sister about how to preserve a way of life that is slipping away from them.

“I’m dropping out of school.”

Thomas stared wide-eyed at his sister, trying to understand the joke. When he had been at school, he had known plenty of people who had not made it all the way to the end of their final year. It was a natural enough thing in the kind of small town that they lived in. Most of those kids were going into their family businesses anyway, or, less hopefully, had already given up on a chance of doing anything with their lives. He caught sight of some of them occasionally, often hanging around the bar he spent his evenings tirelessly working at, all of them drunk and delirious.

None of the people he had known who had dropped out had told him about it with such a fierce look of defiance on their faces as the one now squaring off against him in his living room. None of them had been a thirteen-year-old to whom five foot was still a lofty ambition, either.

“Carol, you can’t,” Thomas said, when he was finally ready to accept that there was no joke waiting to land. “You’re just a child.”

“I’m a _teenager_ ,” Carol insisted. A fact she had been very proud of for the past few months. It made Thomas smile whenever she brought it up. In secret, of course. He would never want to embarrass his little sister. The age difference between them already made that a constant risk. Still, he tried to treat her like a peer, even if he was eight years older. He knew she would hate it if he didn’t.

“All right, you’re a teenager,” Thomas agreed. “You’re still only thirteen. You can’t drop out of school! You need your education.” Carol hissed, giving a little snort through her nose and wrinkling up her face. Thomas did his best to take her seriously, baby-face and all.

“You’re the one who needs help!” she snapped. “You can’t run mom’s bar by yourself!” Thomas felt his heart sink as he realised what was motivating today’s act of rebellion. He had hoped that Carol had not picked up on the full, dire nature of their situation. Apparently, he had been wrong. Not that he should be surprised. She was always far more astute than anyone gave her credit for.

Thomas had been running the bar for the past couple of years, and he was beginning to worry that all he was doing was running it into the ground. Their mother had left it to the both of them shortly before her death, with the expectation that Thomas would take care of it. Maybe somewhere down the line she had envisioned her two children running the place together, but certainly not while Carol was still wearing Thomas’ old hand-me-downs from when he was ten years old. Thomas quite liked the idea of the two of them one day working side by side, actually. It was one of the things that kept him going when things were difficult, which was roughly ninety percent of the time nowadays. Maybe their bar could slowly transition into a place with a proper menu, the sort of place that families could come during the day and couples could swing by at night. That made for a pretty picture. One that he felt was slipping through his fingers more every day.

Thomas was not good at running the bar. He had come along to see his mother’s work a few times when he was younger, and a few more when it became clear that she was dying. Still, it was not the sort of work he was built for. There was too much responsibility, too much organisation to worry over. Thomas would have made an excellent stock manager. An excellent waiter. Maybe even an excellent bartender, given enough time to practice and learn how to make the drinks. Not so much a business owner.

He was happy to admit that Carol was a much better fit for the role, and if she had been the elder sibling, then perhaps there would have been no trouble. It was not the first time he had thought that she would make a better older sister than he did. She was a lot tougher than he was, and savvier as well. With her in charge, they could have a popular, functioning bar. Then, when he was old enough, he could start cooking the food, and that vision of his of a cheerful, local spot with muffins on the counter and cocktail shakers below the bar could come to pass. If, that was, things had worked out that way. Too bad for them both, he was all they had.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Thomas said, forcing a smile onto his face. Carol’s expression did not change. She could tell when he was lying. She scoffed and folded her arms across her chest, cocking her head at him. The way she acted was always so studied, he thought. He was used to rehearsing how to behave, how to talk, even how to stand, but that was because he had never felt comfortable in his own skin. Carol was a lot more confident than he was. The impression she gave off was of someone who didn’t care what anyone thought about anything. It was always odd to think of her struggling like he did. Still, she was young, and no-one had such perfect confidence as she liked to pretend at that age. They both had little rocks of anxiety sitting in their stomachs.

“You don’t even drink!” Carol scoffed again, in a painfully practiced way that wanted to come off as a casual afterthought. “That’s stupid. If I ran a bar, I’d totally drink all the time.”

“Another reason why it’s not a good idea for you to drop out of school and come help me,” Thomas said, dryly, and briefly knocked Carol out of her rhythm. She ended up rolling her eyes and continuing without responding to his comment.

“Look, you’re going to ruin mom’s bar. People are gonna stop coming. You never have anything to say to anyone who shows up there.” Thomas had to admit that his feelings were hurt. He knew she was right, that was the problem.

Although he did not like the idea of Carol spending too much time hanging around a bar, he had brought her along a few times when he was working there. First, to see the very mild changes he had made after inheriting the place, which largely extended to replacing the register and slightly adjusting the table layout, just enough to feel like he had done something to take control. Later, he had let her come along a few times and hang out in their mother’s old dressing room with a book while he worked. It was better than her being alone, he had decided, and Carol was at the age where she resented and resisted all attempts at babysitting. He supposed she had got bored and snuck out to watch him work the bar a few times. A realisation that made him feel guilty that he had not been paying enough attention to the situation.

“Carol, it’s an institution,” he argued. “People aren’t going to stop coming.”

“It _was_ ,” Carol muttered under her breath, and Thomas felt another sting. This was also true. He did not have the same strength of personality as their mother. No-one would be coming to the bar for him.

“I know what this is really about,” Thomas said, unable to hide the hint of bitterness in his voice. He knew he should not resent what Carol was saying. He knew better than to take it out on her. But even so, he wanted this conversation to end, and he had his hand around her weakness. He told himself that it was for both their sake’s that she drop it, and not that he just didn’t have skin thick enough to put up with hearing more hard truths.

“Yeah, it’s about you ruining everything!”

“Carol, I know you hate school,” Thomas snapped, immediately shutting her up. The defiant teenager in their mother’s oversized leather jacket melted back into a big-eyed, freckle-nosed little girl at once. “I know you’ve never liked it,” Thomas repeated, softer this time. “You struggle with a lot of the work –”

“I just don’t care, that’s all,” Carol mumbled. Her arms tightened around her, turning the gesture from tough guy act into a protective spell. Increasingly, her chin was falling down to meet them.

“Maybe,” Thomas said, though he knew that was not the case. His sister was smart, and always had been, but academic work had never come easily to her. Maybe in a better school, things would be different, but this was their reality. He was not surprised that she hated it, but he knew that doing badly and still making it to graduation was better than nothing. He had assured their mother that he was going to get her there, and he hated the idea of his promise exploding in his face so soon.

“I said I _don’t_!” Carol had concentrated her upper body into a ball at this point, and Thomas suspected that part of the reason might be that she didn’t want to risk crying in front of him. He sighed. This was going to take a gentler approach.

“Hey, listen.” He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder, and was not at all surprised when she shrugged him right off again. “Listen,” he insisted, as soft as he could make it sound. “It’s not your fault you don’t like it, but you need to stay in school. Anyway, you don’t want to hang out with me all the time, do you? Your uncool big brother? Really? You’re better than that.” He heard Carol giggle from beneath a canopy of greasy hair.

“I’m totally too cool for that,” she said quietly, and Thomas smiled to himself.

“That’s right,” he agreed. “Besides, you’d miss your friends.” Carol’s shoulders locked up again.

“Who?” she snapped. Thomas hesitated, but he was stuck. He had already started this argument.

“Uh… What about Becky and Anna?” Carol immediately let out a snort.

“They’re _not_ my friends. They’re _babies_.” Thomas frowned to himself, worrying his lip. Greenvale had become an increasingly small town during his short lifetime, and there were very few people Carol’s age around. The local school tended to mix similar age groups together, to try and fill out the classes, and Carol had often ended up side by side with the two younger girls. He knew that the age gap was only two years, which would mean nothing one day, but meant everything to a lonely thirteen-year-old. Not for the first time, he wished that there were more people her own age for her to talk to. He did worry about a future where Carol was this isolated from the people around her.

“Okay… I know they’re younger,” he tried, “but I just think that you could _be_ good friends with them if you wanted to. Besides, you could boss them around a bit, don’t you think? They look up to you.” He made himself smile, hoping to turn the whole thing into some kind of joke. Then, Carol jerked her head up to reveal a sour scowl, and he could not keep any mask of positivity alive.

“You’re just jealous,” she spat, turning vicious in her frustration. “You don’t want me to help because I’d be better than you, and that would make you look stupid. You don’t want your _little sister_ to save you, right? You’d rather just fucking ruin mom’s bar and have it taken away so we _both_ lose it! We’re already gonna lose the house, isn’t that enough for you?”

Thomas had nothing to say. She was right. Well, not with the part about him being jealous, or not wanting Carol’s help. He wished he could explain just how much he did want her help, but he knew it would just make things worse. She couldn’t understand that she was too young to do anything to make it better. Carol would never admit that something was out of her control. No, what she was right about was that he was ruining the bar. He probably would end up having to close it, and sever that last finger wrapped around their sinking family business, trying to keep it afloat. They had already burned through the very scant savings that their mother had left behind for them. And they were going to get kicked out of their house. Even in Greenvale, where rent was cheap enough to insult homeowners, a self-employed twenty-one-year-old rapidly haemorrhaging money could not afford to keep two people living in a three-bedroom house. They were going to have to move into an apartment in the building by the old railroad tracks, and neither one was looking forward to it. Especially Carol, who had never had to move before, and whose attachment to their house rivalled her attachment to their dead mother.

That was what this was really about. Carol did not want to lose anything else. The bar was the only thing she really had left to cling onto. She needed it. Thomas resolved to do better. He could get some books on managing the business. He could try to get along better with the patrons, try to get a rapport going that would encourage bigger tips and larger orders. He could find things to cut out of their budget, somewhere, and save some money. He could turn it around. He could do this, because he had no choice.

As the weight of everything began to pile itself high on Thomas’ back, he felt his shoulders start to slacken. The weight might be imaginary, but the responsibility wasn’t. It was daunting to say the least. He could not help but think what his life would be like at this point without it. Where he might be instead. Maybe college, or job training. The city. Something lighter than the load of all this.

“I wish…” Thomas began, his lip starting to shake. “I’m sorry. I just wish we weren’t alone.” Once it was said, it was like all the air left his body, and Thomas crumpled onto the sofa behind him. He wrapped his arms around himself and buried his head between them. He did not cry. He told himself it was because he was too tired to do so, but the truth was that even that seemed pointless at this stage.

A few seconds later, he felt Carol’s hand on his shoulder, gently patting him. The small gesture, the fact that she had dropped her anger for his sake, changed things. Now he started to cry. As the first little shaking sobs came out, he heard Carol’s voice from above him.

“Don’t worry. I’ll listen. We can make it work together.”


	4. Hoarder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brian spends a rainy day locked inside his shack, thinking about a recent death and the way that time has continued to move forward for everyone but him.

The sound of raindrops bouncing off the wooden shell of the shack grew more intense with every minute that went by. Leaving at this point would mean getting soaked through to the bone. Staying inside was the only option, but in the small, dark space inside the shack, it was like being entombed. Very much like it. Brian stared out of a stained window at the heavy rain outside. There was little space to see out of. The square of the window was largely blacked out with what looked like soot. Maybe it was. Whatever the cause, it had happened long enough ago that he no longer remembered. Some memories were hard to hold onto, he found. What year something had happened, names, faces, all of that went. Others seemed to stick around forever, still clear as crystal after so much time. Fresh like only a week had passed. Regardless of whether or not he wanted them to stay.

Even if the thunder storm had not rolled in, it was unlikely that Brian would be making much use of the day. All he ever really did was wander around the hillside that the graveyard was set into, sometimes stopping to try and make out the rubbed-flat names that had all but vanished from the older graves. Rarely did he stop to read the fresher ones. Too high a risk of seeing someone he recognised. The rain did not usually bother him too much, but thunder could still make him feel ill at ease. The clashing and rumbling in the sky was too loud for him. Even though the shack did little to block it out, it was something.

What Brian would have liked to do, if it had been a nice, clear day, was take his walk further afield. He knew that train tracks snaked through the woods not too far from the old iron gates that marked the border of the graveyard. He knew that if someone were lucky, they might catch sight of a deer or two, hopping through the underbrush. Stealing the light into their dappled coats. No doubt there were plenty of people who would relish such sights, and he considered himself one of them, though he could do nothing about it. Those gates did not just mark the edge of the graveyard, they drew a line around his whole world.

It was possible for him to leave. He had left before. Very rarely, admittedly, but it had been known to happen. In truth, he was thinking about going out again more at the moment, what with everything that had happened. The only thing that held him back was knowing how much effort it took. Brian could leave the graveyard, but ever since he had left his body, it could not last for long.

Every trip outside those gates cost him greatly. He had a dim understanding of the concept of fetters from life, and a lot of personal experience of it since. He had to stay close to whatever still grounded him in the world. If he had to guess, either his body or his gravestone. Both were just outside the shack he was currently holed up in, a few short strides down the hill. A nice spot, on a good day. Small comfort. What it meant in practice was that trying to get away from his fetter would quickly deplete all his energy, and getting back afterwards was a grinding crawl that took him closer to death, real, lasting death, with every second that went by. He hated to risk it. The longest he had been out since he found himself stuck here was a few hours.

Brian moved away from the window, letting the thin strip of brown fabric that called itself a curtain slip back into place. He approached the old tool bench that took up a large part of the interior of the shack. Standing before it, he found himself idly tapping his fingers in tune to the raindrops above. It would be a welcome relief to leave for a while. He got so impatient being here by himself. Still, it was too taxing a thing for him to justify doing for no reason. He needed a good one.

That girl who had died yesterday. He had sensed it happen. A brutal thing like that, it was inevitable that he felt something. No doubt there would be a funeral at some point, a whole rush of people thinning out the grass, spreading across the hills, weeping over their goodbyes. For him, a hole to dig. Still, he relished any slight contact with the outside world, even if the occasion was unfailingly unpleasant for them. There would be a lot of people this time. She had been popular, it seemed. There was a lot of grief in the air, like static electricity. He felt it all. For something like this, he could justify bending the rules a little. He might take the excuse to leave while he had it.

Brian had not run into her yet, but he knew it was just a matter of time. There was personality there, a hell of a lot of it, and a girl like that was not going to disappear into vapour without a second thought. She would show up. Violent deaths usually did, even if they never seemed to stick around for long. It did make him wonder. Every car accident victim that flashed briefly before him, wailing and bloodied even in death. The rare victim of a domestic fight turned brutal, personal, standing on the hill and staring blankly into space. The suicides. All of them blinked out of existence quickly after realising that their lives were over. Unlike him. Wherever they went, he had never been invited along. For whatever reason, he was still stuck here. Years passed, and he wondered if he would be stuck here until the town was nothing more than mounds of wildflowers and torn up roads buried under six feet of uncut grass. If there was a reason for his being here, he was yet to discover what it was.

He had stolen into town briefly that morning after he understood what had happened. He had been afraid at first, feeling the familiar swimming sickness in his stomach as soon as he strayed more than a few feet past the gates. Still, he had wanted something. This time, he wanted to be a little less lonely for a little bit longer.

Brian’s hands moved across the tool bench to where he had stashed his prize. It had belonged to her, the girl who had died. He had felt as much as soon as he found it. A tiny bottle of nail polish, lost in the parking lot outside a red brick building, that he had nonetheless been drawn to. It matched the energy in the air after she had died. He held the bottle up, hunting for a better patch of light. The potion inside was red, a bubbly cherry red, like lipstick in a magazine ad. There were tiny stars within, specs of glittery plastic that shimmered as he shifted the bottle about in his fingers. He put it back down again. There was a smudge on the black, pen top lid. A remainder of nail polish from when she had no doubt failed to screw it on right, probably brushing the bottle with a freshly painted nail. It was a trace of humanity that he did not want to risk disturbing any more than he already had. Not just any humanity, but specifically hers. He hoped that the bottle would make for a welcome sight, something familiar, for when he finally met the murder victim face to face.

Brian was going to give it to her as a welcome present. She would not take well to being dead, he was sure of that. A girl so full of life would hate to think that it was all over so soon. A touch of home was about all he could give her to soften the blow. He needed it to be enough. To be something. There had not been a true unsolved murder in Greenvale for a long time, now, and he found himself, grim though it was to admit, getting attached. He wanted someone to talk to, even just in passing, and this might finally be his chance. The nail polish was about all he could offer.

Underneath the bench was a thick black bag, of the plastic kind used for collecting outdoor trash. He dragged it carefully out of hiding and brought it up onto the work surface. For a moment, he inspected the sides of the bag for damage, checking for rips and tears, but was satisfied to see nothing new. Just as well. It would be murder trying to get another unsoiled bag to hold his precious treasures.

Emptying the bag out onto the table revealed an odd mix of things. A collection of lost items spanning back decades. At least he thought they did. Time was not exactly easy to keep track of anymore. Brian picked up the first one, the thing closest to the top of the pile, and looked it over. A single shoe, one that had turned up in the graveyard at some point with no match or owner. It always made him sad, in the clingy style of missed opportunities. The story it told was of someone wandering around his home, and he had not caught them while they were here. He supposed, he knew on some level, that an animal might have found it somewhere else in the woods and dragged it here, but that was not the story he liked to tell himself. Even though it was bittersweet, he preferred to think that someone had come through here, and that he had simply missed them. He liked it that way, because if someone had come by once, it meant they might come again. He never completely gave up hope of having a regular visitor. It seemed that the ever-diminishing residents of Greenvale were not particularly sentimental people. Few bothered to show up at the graveyard to visit their dead relatives anymore. If they did, it was a habit that died shortly after the funeral was over. A town so thickly wrapped up in death was bound to make people cling all the harder to life. It was inevitable that he ended up alone. Who would want the reminder?

Brian put the shoe back down on the work surface and picked up the thing beside it. A book, a battered and water-damaged paperback, probably from a library. This one was old. The yellow, mildewed pages made that very clear, even if the psychedelic cover art failed to convey a feeling of time gone by. Someone must have dropped this either in or near the graveyard. He could no longer remember exactly where he had found it, but he knew that he had rescued it from a rainstorm, much like the one that was bearing down on them today. It was lucky, the rain had almost disintegrated it. Brian flipped the cover open and tried to resist the waft of rot that reached his nose as soon as he did so. Inside the book, there were some sparse pencil scribblings. At least two different hands. Maybe this had come from the school library at some point. The words were faded now, and it was hard to read them, but he could make out the odd note to someone else’s self that had been left behind. He mouthed the words as he puzzled them out, before carefully shutting the cover and putting the book back down.

The next thing he picked up made him smile. He did not completely understand this one, or recognise the picture on it, but he knew it was some kind of playing card. Probably a collectible, based on some of the small numbers at the bottom of it. The character displayed in a box at the top of the card made no sense to him, but he could hardly be expected to keep up with trends at this stage. A child must have left this behind at some point. Probably, it had accidentally fallen out of a pocket, and blown through the breeze until it reached him. He was glad it had. Things like this were a rare window into how the world had changed since it had left him behind. The fifties felt like a very long time ago.

There was another example of the changing world beyond the graveyard gates waiting when he put the card back down. This one he knew was called a cassette tape, simply because he had heard the person who lost it refer to it as such. That day was still clear to him, one of his crystal memories that did not seem to be going anywhere. A young man with a thick spray of brown hair had been loitering in the graveyard, smoking with a couple of friends. They had spent most of an afternoon leaning up against the wall of Brian’s shack, chatting amongst themselves and glazing over. The other two had left first, but as the young man had called out for them to wait up, he had realised that his bag had spilled all over the grass. Muttering, he had tried to gather up all the things that had tried to vanish when he wasn’t paying attention, but there was one thing he could not find. Brian had overheard him talking to himself, hunting for the lost cassette tape and getting all the more frustrated that it was nowhere to be found. He was never going to find it, though, as Brian already knew, because he had taken it when the three smokers had stopped paying attention.

Brian had listened from within the shack, peering out the window when it was safe to do so. He caught snatches of the back of the man as he crossed in front of the shack, groaning at the thought of losing something important. The jacket he was wearing looked like something that a motorcycle gang would sport to tear around the country, and Brian had wondered if this was just the fashion nowadays. He had hoped not. The man, who Brian had begun to realise was younger than he had first thought, maybe not even quite twenty, had buried his hands in the cock’s crow of brown hair springing out of his scalp. That was when he had moaned at the thought of his homemade cassette tape being lost for good. He had left soon after.

The idea of the plasticky thing being homemade had always impressed Brian. Even now, after such a long time, he marvelled at the idea of someone putting such a thing together with their own two hands. There was a peeling paper label stuck to the front of it, which Brian had worked hard to keep safe, being the only clue to the exact nature of his stolen treasure. Unfortunately, the meaning behind “Keith’s Wicked Demo Tape” was still an enigma.

The same man had appeared in the graveyard again years later, and not as young this time. Brian recognised the way he spoke. It was hard to forget such a unique jumble of words. This time, he had a pair of small children chasing his heels. The sight had been a reminder of how easily time went by. Brian had spent many days shut inside after that.

As he always did, Brian eventually came around to the other part of his collection. These items were different, and he shook slightly as he reached out for them. Having these things stored in the same bag as everything else was the main reason that he did not open it up too often. Today, with the rain pounding down on all sides and the occasional background rumble of thunder, he had to admit he was feeling vulnerable. And vulnerability inevitably led straight back to nostalgia.

 A chipped mug, a leather belt. Clothes pegs and a hairbrush. A strip of paper torn straight from the wall that never failed to shed a little more plaster dust, but no photos. Photos would be a step too far, a step too close to despair. Brian looked over each item in turn, as he always did, working his way through them slowly, so as not to deplete his routine too quickly. He only let himself do this once in a while, so he liked to get everything he could out of the ritual when he ran it through.

These things had come from his own house. It had taken a long time to collect them, many trips. Sometime after he had come to be in the graveyard, after realising and then admitting that he had died, and that he was stuck here, he had decided he needed closure. He had never had much in the way of family, certainly no wife or children to worry about, but he did have a large house that had been left to him by his father. A place filled with everything that had mattered to him in life. At first, it had been impossible to even step outside the fence without feeling like he was going to pass out, but he got stronger over time. Though there did seem to be a cap on how strong he could get. Still, he had eventually made it to his house, even if he had dearly paid for pushing himself so hard. Days and days of recovery. On his trips, he had gathered up enough pieces of his old life to almost trick himself into believing that he had simply moved house. The shack was something of a downgrade from the beautiful place that he had once been so proud of.

Brian wondered what the house was like now. He had not gone back for a long time, not wanted to. Closure had never really reached him, so he had had to force it. He told himself that he no longer had any need of the house, that he no longer missed or maybe did not even remember the life that he had lived there. Sometimes he had to tell himself over and over and over again, but he had not broken yet. It had been years and years since he last saw his old home, at least as long ago as that day when a cassette tape was silently stolen through a hole in the wall of a wooden shack. It was probably condemned by now. Long shut up, if not outright torn down. Brian stood still, looking into the space where the wall met the ceiling for a long time, and let himself remember.

Outside, through the curtain of rain, he thought he heard something parting the grass. The sound of something moving around. As he listened out, he heard a voice. A glance through the window confirmed it. She was here.

Brian swept his things back into the bag, hurrying, but careful not to break anything. He would happily put away these leftovers from other lives now, now that there was the promise of some real company, but he knew not to get his hopes up too high. She would most likely disappear in time, like everyone else, and he would be alone again. He would be thankful for his collection then. When everything was safely out of sight, Brian picked up the little bottle of nail polish, taking a final second to admire the glitter within before reaching for the door handle.

He hoped the present went over well.


	5. Trick or Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A younger Olivia does her best to enjoy Halloween, but the sudden appearence of Diane with some interesting news throws her off, and she's left not knowing how to feel.

It was Halloween night and the diner’s windows were full of pumpkins. Some were more squashed than Olivia would have liked, but Nick had refused to let her take anything but the rejects from his kitchen. There was no point wasting good food, he had said, and Olivia had ultimately decided he was right. Besides, the various fun designs she had carefully carved into them hid most of the damage. She stood in the doorway, illuminated by the very last of the late afternoon sun, smiling out at the families passing by. Most smiled back. All the faces were familiar. There was probably no-one in town that she didn’t know by sight.

The noise behind her occasionally rose up, before turning into laughter and dying down again. The diner was an unofficial Halloween headquarters tonight, a place for people to drop off their kids while they went off to parties, knowing they would have a steady pair of eyes looking over them. Olivia was notoriously trustworthy. Or, as plenty of her high school peers had put it, boring.

Now and then someone came over, dragged along by an excited child, and Olivia dipped down and offered them the plastic bowl she was holding. A mumbled thank you through a rubber mask, the rustling of wrappers, and they were gone. Olivia was enjoying the comfortable rhythm of it all, when she caught sight of someone she had not expected to see tonight. Diane Ames. Striding towards her.

The Ames family were well-known in Greenvale for being stinking rich. They were second only to Harry Stewart, and he barely counted. The man never showed his face around town, and it was easy to forget that he existed. At least until the rent was due. Admittedly, it was almost as rare to see the Ames mother, but only because she was usually sunning herself on a beach somewhere in California or the Caribbean. And when she came back, she made sure that everyone she laid eyes on knew exactly where she had been. It was hard to forget her with performances like that. Diane was her eldest daughter. She was a couple of years younger than Olivia, though she did not act like it. From their occasional interactions, both at school and after it, Olivia knew that Diane had all of her mother’s confidence. She only seemed to lack the same desire to show it off. Olivia had always felt that made her a lot more dangerous.

“Hello, Olivia. Quiet night?” Olivia did not know how to reply. Behind her, half a dozen teenagers yelled and jeered at one another.

Diane was wearing what you could technically call a costume. She had on a tight black dress, part of her regular wardrobe rotation, and a cheap fabric witch’s hat. When Olivia glanced down, she made a note of the fishnet stockings and black high heels that completed the look. She also made eye contact with Becky, Diane’s younger sister, who was clinging to her hand.

“Take a piece of candy,” Diane told Becky, not waiting for Olivia to answer her question. Becky fidgeted in place. She was a recent teenager, and already chafing in the experience. Almost overnight she had gone from a sweet, bright kid, to the kind of teenager who seems allergic to attention the way vampires are allergic to the sun. She was bound to grow out of it, but it looked like it was going to be a rough couple of years getting there.

“I don’t want to,” Becky moaned under her breath. “I want to go to a party.”

“You’re thirteen, what do you expect to do at a party?” Diane asked with a sly laugh. “I mean, really?” She made brief eye contact with Olivia, as if they understood one another. Olivia could not remember going to many parties when she was a teenager. Not, she had to admit, that she went to any now.

“I’m too old for trick or treating,” Becky insisted, switching her weight from foot to foot. In contrast to Diane’s last-minute witch, Becky was all trussed up in an old-fashioned gown, her hair decorated with a simple silver tiara. The costume must have been a lot of effort to make. Or, more accurately, it must have cost her parents a lot of money.

“If you don’t want any candy, then why don’t you say hi to your friends?” Diane asked. She swung her arm forward, nudging Becky towards the entrance to the diner. “Look, Quint Dunn is here.” Becky’s eyes went to the window faster than she no doubt intended. Olivia looked as well, catching sight of a boy with a head of scruffy blonde hair, dressed as a mechanic. He was sitting at one of the tables and laughing along with a few of the other school kids who had been dropped off earlier. When Richard had brought him over, he had apologised for putting Olivia out. She had promised him it was nothing, not a problem at all, and she had not been lying. Quint was loud, but he was good at heart. She did not mind watching him, especially if it freed his father up to go spend the evening talking to Sallie Graham. Olivia was a romantic. She could not help but root for things like that to work out.

Becky was hovering on the threshold. Her eagerness had quickly been replaced with uncertainty, and she looked back at Diane for guidance. Diane put on a smile, softer than what Olivia would have expected from her, and gestured for Becky to go in.

“Go on,” she said. “I need to talk to Mrs. Cormack.” Becky shrugged, and scurried into the diner. The sound of her voice joining the throng of others followed. Diane turned back to Olivia, fixing her with her full, cool stare, and Olivia felt the need to clear her throat.

“H-happy Halloween!” she said, realising she had not yet said anything. It would have been nice if her voice hadn’t cracked, but then, that was the sort of thing she had come to expect from her life. Diane’s expression turned smirk.

“I like your costume,” she said, in her drawn-out way. Olivia looked down, clutching the candy bowl tightly to her chest. She was not wearing a costume.

“Thank you. I like yours.”

“I’m a witch,” Diane said. Yes, Olivia thought to herself. I think everyone can see that.

There was a moment of silence. Olivia had nothing to say, and felt worse the longer it dragged on. She did not know whether Diane actually had something to tell her, or if it had just been a way to ditch her sister. An excuse to sneak off to the sort of party Olivia would never have so much as a sniff of. Though why the Ames could not afford a babysitter, she did not know. Whatever the case, she wished Diane would just get on with it.

“I had something to tell you,” Diane said at last, ignoring the silence as if it had all been in Olivia’s imagination. Which, admittedly, it might have been. In reality, it had probably only been about five seconds.

“Oh, yes?” Olivia asked, her voice squeaking in a way she hated.

“Yes, it’s about your husband.” Olivia’s stomach immediately bottomed out. Whatever the news was, she didn’t want to hear it. She would rather not know. She wished her body would let her shout out that Diane had to keep it to herself, but she was rigid, right down to her lungs. “He and I were talking a little the other day, and he asked if I could give him painting lessons.”

The relief was instant. Painting lessons, that was all right. Nick had always been interested in art. When they were younger, Olivia had thought it made him seem deep and brooding. He was like someone from a big city, or a film. Not that anything had come of it, in the end.

After a few seconds, the relief began to fade. Why had he been talking to Diane at all? They had nothing in common. They didn’t know the same people. Well, they did, but only in the way that everyone in Greenvale knew people. They didn’t share any _friends_ , that was for sure. There was no good reason for them to be talking. No good reason, bar one.

Diane came hand in hand with a heavy reputation, one that she had never disputed. No woman would be happy to hear that she had been making friendly small talk with their husband, and Diane had to know it. There was a reason you never saw her strolling around town with a group of friends. She had practically invented the concept of burning bridges. To think that she would come here, just to share this. It was like she was rubbing it in Olivia’s face.

“Of course, I couldn’t exactly turn him away…” Diane was still talking. Olivia did not want to know. She had no desire to hear how far this went. She needed Nick. She didn’t have anything else. Couldn’t Diane see that? This was just cruel.

“Oh… all right, then –”

“I’ll teach him some basics if he wants,” Diane said, cutting across Olivia’s mumbled attempt to get her to stop talking. “Everyone needs to start somewhere. But, I brought you something.” Diane unzipped the cute little designer bag hanging off her pointed shoulder, and produced a small rectangle, wrapped in purple paper.

“Oh! I…” Olivia put her bowl down on the ground and took the gift, holding it tentatively in her hands. This was about as unexpected a turn as the conversation could have taken. She looked up from the package to Diane, who had a thin smile on her face. “Do people give gifts for Halloween?”

“In a sense,” Diane laughed. She leant closer to Olivia, so that she could lower her voice and still be heard. “People give things out to trick or treaters, don’t they? Here’s your candy, little girl.” Olivia shivered.

“Th-thank you.”

“Open it,” Diane said, shifting back, brushing her hair away from her face. A strand had decided to stick to her lipstick, and Olivia watched her free it without meaning to look. When she had recovered from her momentary shock, she delicately ripped the paper, revealing Diane’s present.

It was a book. A hard-covered book, the size of a wallet, clearly designed to tuck into somebody’s pocket. Somebody other than her, seeing as the title announced it as a brief history of modern art. She had no idea about anything to do with art. Perhaps Diane had assumed that, because Nick had been talking about it, Olivia shared his interest. Sadly, for everybody involved, that was not the case.

“I thought it might be helpful.” Olivia looked back up. Diane was talking, staring straight at her, and the unbroken, unwavering eye contact actually made Olivia turn pink. It was so unexpected. There was something so intense about all of this, and she just didn’t understand why.

“I’m sure it’s a nice book, thank you,” Olivia said, hoping she sounded grateful. It was a nice gesture, she supposed, even if it was an odd one. Diane did not turn away. Apparently, whatever was happening was not quite over yet.

“You should read it when you get a chance,” Diane told her. “Maybe there’s something in there that you can tell Nick about.” With that, finally, she looked away, and Olivia found herself breathing out. She had not noticed that was holding her breath.

Diane walked past her without another word and went inside. Olivia did not turn around, but she overheard a brief argument with Becky, who had suddenly decided that the diner was exactly where she wanted to spend her Halloween. It lasted for less than a minute before Diane reappeared, holding her sister by the hand. She cast her eyes over Olivia briefly, fixing her with one last smirk, before heading off down the street.

Olivia watched her go. She was lost for words. Something had happened, she knew that. This gesture had been important. A show of kindness from a woman who rarely offered the world more than a cold shoulder. But Olivia did not know her well enough to figure it out. All she had was the book, and her already jumbled memory of the past ten minutes.

Still. It had to have meant something.


End file.
